


Wreaths of Fadeless Flowers

by ellipsometry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Fluff, Harry loves diving because he loves Speedos, Liam just loves Sports(TM), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam Payne is a decathlete with a score to settle.  Harry Styles is Great Britain's most famous Olympian (and Liam's biggest fan.)</p>
<p>Or, an Olympic AU I wrote because I'm still sad the Olympics are over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wreaths of Fadeless Flowers

Harry is effortlessly graceful in the air.

He brings himself up to a handstand on the edge of the diving tower - exactly ten meters up in the air - and points his toes toward the sky. With a kick off the platform he goes tumbling, twisting, and somersaulting through the air before he finally hits the water. He seems to disappear as he hits the pool, only an echo of a splash indicating that he entered the water at all.

“And with a 91.8, that will put Harry Styles of Great Britain in a very comfortable place after the second round of dives,” the commentator’s voice is hard to hear over the roar of the crowd. There’s a fair number of young women in the crowd, as always when Harry is performing.

Harry climbs out of the pool, almost lumbering, pausing to pull up his briefs.  He turns back to give a quick bow to the crowd - something he picked up from his time training with the Chinese National Diving Team. And he almost makes it to the showers before he loses his footing, tripping on air and colliding with a cameraman.

On land, Harry is… not so graceful.

Later, that footage of Harry taking a tumble with the cameraman will go viral.  For now, though, it seems like Liam (and perhaps a few of the teenage girls sitting around him) is the only one in the crowd who has noticed Harry’s fall.

The crowd re-focuses on the next diver, but Liam can’t seem to tear his eyes from the small sliver of Harry that he can still see, the diver washing the chlorine off his skin.  

There isn’t really a reason for Liam Payne, Decathlete of Great Britain, to be sitting in the stands at the preliminary rounds of the men’s 10-meter platform.  He can appreciate a good dive as well as the next person, Liam supposes, and he is always up to support his fellow GB teammates.  But still.  He shouldn’t be here.  He should be resting up for the first day of competition tomorrow, he should be checking in with Paddy to see if his coach has any last-minute advice, he should be fending off more badgering from Louis.

“You should come see me dive tomorrow,” Harry had said.  Not really an invitation, per se, more of a suggestion.  And a suggestion after many, many beers in a shady corner of the Olympic Village, no less.  Meaning that Liam was really under no obligation to actually show up today.

But he did.  

Even Harry himself seem surprised when Liam catches him after the prelims are over, “Fancy meeting you here,” he says, hair still damp and falling over into his eyes.  Liam isn’t sure why he has such an urge to tuck Harry’s hair behind his ear and out of his face.

“Yep.  Why, do you come here often?” Liam grunts, trying to joke.

Luckily, Harry laughs, “Glad to have you cheering for me.”

“Awkward, since I was actually rooting for that Chinese bloke.”

“Well, I wouldn’t blame you,” Harry muses, “He’s quite talented.”

They go on like this for a while, exchanging quips as they walk together out of the arena, load into the van that takes them back to the village, walk together up toward Liam’s room.

“Think I’ll go over to Niall’s again tonight, what about you?” Harry asks, kind of bashfully.  He’s referring to Niall Horan, the Irish golfer who had hosted a massive party last night to celebrate his bronze medal.  The party where Harry and Liam had officially met.

“Don’t you have semifinals tomorrow?” Liam asks, “I mean-- I only mean that I’ll be laying low tonight.  Since I’ve got first day of my meet tomorrow.”

Harry, effervescent as always, just shrugs, “I’ll actually be laying low tonight too.  Just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to party without me.  Would’ve been jealous if you were out having fun while I’m at home in my ice bath.”

Liam balks.  That’s got to be the most roundabout way of asking someone if they have plans he’s ever heard.  Or maybe Harry was secretly hoping that Liam would be going out too?  So that they could re-create their night last night?  Liam wonders.

But what he says is, “Well, goodnight then.”

 

+

 

“The Greatest Athlete in the World.”

That’s the honorary title lauded upon the winner of the Olympic Decathlon.  Ten events: four runs, three jumps, three throws.  The basics, the very heart and soul of sport and athletics (and Athletics, capital A.)  A challenge of endurance, and of strategy.  And at the end of two days of competition, the Greatest Athlete in the World emerges victorious.

By that measure, Liam Payne is the fourth Greatest Athlete in the World.  Or, as he sometimes thinks of it, a jack of all trades, master of none.  When Liam made his Olympic debut in London in 2012, he was just a kid.  Less than a month away from nineteen, and he came in with the kind of outsized expectations that one might expect from a teenaged Olympian.  He thought he could win, he really did.

It was a grueling competition, and Liam had the meet of his life.  He threw farther, ran faster, jumped higher than he ever had before.  And it still wasn’t enough.

“Is that why you decided to come back?” a BBC commentator asks him, a week before he leaves for Rio, “Because you just missed the podium in 2012?”

“Well, I’m young,” Liam had said, “I’m very young.  And so I still have time to make my mark.”

He sure doesn’t feel young.  Moving into the village, walking in the Opening Ceremony, warming up at the practice track - Liam kind of feels like he’s going through the motions.  He can’t stop and enjoy the moment because he’s so consumed by dread and anticipation.

“You’re a fuckin’ downer, crack a fuckin’ smile, won’t you?” Louis groans, flopping over on Liam’s bed.  Louis and the rest of Great Britain’s football team aren’t even staying in the village, holed up in a local hotel instead.

“I’m focused,” Liam argues, frowning slightly.  Or, rather, frowning a little bit more than he had been before.

“So am I, but you don’t see me moping about.”

“You mope all the time.”

A scoff, “I’ve never moped in my life.”  Of course he has.  The moping history of Louis Tomlinson, one of England’s most recognizable football players, is very well-documented.

“Why don’t you come out with me tonight?  That Horan lad is having a rager, got himself a bronze medal and everything,” Louis has taken to throwing Liam’s own wadded up socks at him, “Enjoy your fuckin’ Olympic experience, you arse.”

Liam can’t exactly argue with that logic.  Which is how he finds himself on a crowded balcony, surrounded by a lot of foreign golfers talking over each other in various languages.  Louis had been whisked away pretty quickly after their arrival, presumably to take shots with Nick Grimshaw, a football commentator with whom he has a very public on-again/off-again friendship.

Liam spots Jade Thirwall, a friendly heptathlete, and considers joining her and some of the other track and field girls, but he reconsiders.  Wishing he had a drink to nurse, he leans moodily against the railing as the golfers head back inside.

This is when he meets Harry Styles.

“Just you out here?” Harry is holding three beers in one of his giant hands, the necks nestled in between his fingers.  His free hand roams through his hair, newly cropped.

“Just me,” Liam says, eyeing Harry, “You drinking all those yourself, mate?” He points to the three beers in Harry’s hand.

The younger boy laughs, passing one beer to Liam, placing one down on the ground in between them, and taking a long sip of the remaining one, “I was getting drinks for my friends but… got distracted I guess,” his smile is lopsided, “I’m Harry Styles.”

“Reckon I knew that,” Liam grins.  

Harry might be the most well-known Olympian on Great Britain’s team.  Back home, Harry regularly makes headlines for doing things as mundane as getting frozen yogurt.  His dating life manages to spark controversy regardless of what gender his snogging partner is, and he’s been begged multiple times to be a contestant on Celebrity Big Brother, always refusing.  (Much to Louis’ disdain, that last one.  Louis has been trying to get on CBB for years, Liam knows, to no avail.)

Harry snaps his fingers, “I thought this new hair would make me unrecognizable.”  Harry’s famously-long, distinctively-curly hair is now cut short.

“You have very distinctive eyes,” Liam says without thinking, and it might just be the gayest thing he’s ever said.  But it is true, “I’m Liam by the way.  Liam Payne.”

Harry nods, not once or twice or three times, but four times, like he’s bobbing his head to his favorite song, “The decathlon guy.”

“A ‘decathlete,’ technically,” though Liam is hardly the person to be lecturing others on grammar.

“You’re basically Superman.”

“I prefer Batman, myself.”

Their conversation comes easily after that, discussing the opening ceremony, the performance of the other athletes so far, medals already won, dreams already fulfilled or crushed.  Being an Olympian is a unique experience, they both note, mostly because of the ever-present sense of accomplishment and jubilation coupled with the equally ever-present sense of permanent anticipation and stress.

“Least you have a medal already to show for it,” Liam notes, not unkindly, “You have something to be really proud of already.”

They had both been in London in 2012, Liam knows as much.  He’s not sure Harry knows he was there; they had, after all, never officially met.  Somehow had never crossed paths.

To Liam’s surprise, Harry perks up, “So do you!” he says eagerly, “Your performance was incredible, coming back to almost win the 1500 meters like that!  I really think you could have won it all if Eaton hadn’t caught you at the end.”

“I was in way over my head,” Liam says automatically, before a couple gears click together in his head, “You… were there?”

At least Harry has the wherewithal to look sheepish, “Guilty.  Would you believe me if I said I was there for Usain Bolt?”

“Probably,” Liam laughs, “I feel like a right arse for introducing myself and all.”

“Not your fault,” Harry picks up the remaining beer and takes a long drink, “I didn’t want to look creepy but since the cat’s out of the bag, I’m kind of your biggest fan.”

“Shut up,” Liam rolls his eyes to disguise the pink flush rushing up his neck.

“It’s true!  I mean, London was the first time I saw you compete.  Been trying to keep up with your progress and whatnot since then, I dunno… You’re a real winner.”  Coming from anyone else, this would likely be unbearably corny.  Coming from Harry, however, it’s enough to sweep Liam off his feet right then and there, “There’s a lot about you that… I wish I could be, I guess,” Harry continues, “You’re very hard-working, so focused about it.  And talented, obviously.”

Liam’s face is beet red.  He mentally blames it on the couple beers he’s had since the night began, and his poor alcohol tolerance, and his dodgy kidney.  He tries to blame it on anything other than the fact that Harry is devastatingly sincere, and terribly handsome, “I don’t know about all that,” he clears his throat, “But you’re more talented than me!  And hard working, you actually made the podium, after all.”

Though Liam wouldn’t know - how could he know? - Harry sometimes resented his bronze medal.  At the time, he had been so proud, so triumphant.  He had come to the 2012 London Olympics as a child, really, of only 17.  Harry had wanted to win, yes, but didn’t expect it.  And yet he had still been able to snag a spot on the podium, distinguishing himself as one of the best in the world at his sport, at his love.

“I’m wondering if bronze medalists from other countries get this same outpouring of affection,” a well-meaning interviewer says this to Harry about a month after the closing of the games, “You’ve become a kind of overnight sensation.  You’re quite famous, I’d say.”

At the risk of sounding cliche, Harry tells her he hates the word famous.  The medal around his neck suddenly feels like it weighs one hundred pounds.

When Harry had ended up at the Olympic stadium at that day, four years ago, his eyes had been drawn to Liam. That was the athlete from his home country, after all.  But Harry had always thought it was more than that.  It was the day after his own event finals, after his own victory ceremony, and Harry found himself cheering for Liam to win.  Not to make the podium, but to win it all.  All or nothing at all.

Harry’s been quiet for a while, enough time for Liam to reach and grab another beer from the cooler on the balcony, “I guess having a bronze medal is kind of weird, right?” he says, to break the silence, “I mean.  You’re happy you’ve won something, and an Olympic medal, no less.  But you’re still kind of gutted it’s not gold, I’d imagine.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry says, louder than he means to.  He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until it all came rushing out of him, like a balloon that’s just been popped, “D’you think it’s weird?  That I’m so… famous, I guess,” he says the word so quickly Liam almost doesn’t catch it, “even though I didn’t get gold?  That _is_ odd, isn’t it?”

Liam hums, “Mmm… maybe.”

Harry deflates, though he tries not to let it show.  He’s conflicted: that’s what he thinks, that it’s odd someone like him, who isn’t even near the pinnacle of his sport, who only managed to snag a bronze medal due to a slip-up by the defending world champion and some kind of cosmic fate fueled by adrenaline, is now somehow the sweetheart of Great Britain.  That’s what he thinks, and he wants someone to agree with him, let him know that he’s not crazy for thinking it.  But all he ever hears is that he deserves it, that he should be grateful for the fame.  Harry wants to be grateful, he wants to enjoy it, but he thinks he’s rather ill-equipped for it.

“Oh.”

“I mean,” Liam is clearly a bit tipsy off of just a beer and a half.  His eyes are a bit unfocused, and Harry recalls reading a profile of Liam in _GQ_ where he confessed to have a faulty kidney or something of the sort.  It somehow shows, “I… mean… who cares?”

“... Huh?”

“Who cares why or how you’re so bloody famous.  Y’just are.  You’re nice and you’ve got a good smile, and you’re a diver so being fit as hell is basically a requirement, and you’re all always prancing about in next to nothing,” both boys blush at this, “I dunno.  I think you’re doing alright.”

_Who cares?_  Harry feels floored, because, well, he cares.  But maybe he’s the only one.  Maybe he doesn’t have to worry about it.

“You’re pretty wise, Liam,” Harry says, half-joking, half-not.

“Nah,” Liam looks embarrassed, and his face is pink in a way that makes Harry feel like someone is doing somersaults in his chest, “I’m a pretty simple guy.”

Harry thinks about the paparazzi that camp out outside his home, and the fans that mob him outside his usual training center, and the nonsensical stories written about him in the press.   _What is Harry wearing, why did he cut his hair, who is he dating?_ He thinks about the stupid whirlwind that his is life, and the stupid, painful, fickle sport he fell in love with.

Harry smiles, “I like simple.”

 

+

 

Liam Payne is a skinny thing, really.  Only eighteen years old, which is still older than Harry, but he seems so young compared to the other decathletes, hardened and muscled men with years of experience under their belts.

There’s really no reason why Harry Styles, seventeen-year-old diving ingenue, budding celebrity, and newly-minted Olympic Bronze Medalist, should be in the nosebleed seats of Olympic Stadium watching the second day of the men’s decathlon. He supposes he could have gotten better seats, with the rest of the athletes, but it’s been a long day and he’d gotten kind of confused at the entrance and ended up just shuffling along with the rest of the crowd, winding up alone on an aisle seat thirty rows up.

The boy next to him is around Harry’s age, with dark hair, brown skin, and a sharp jawline, “Y’alright mate?”

Harry stammers, “Y-- I’m good.  I’m good,” and then, “Isn’t today a school day?”

Rather than a sarcastic response, the boy grins, “Skipped today.  Had to see my mate Liam compete, look.  He’s on team GB, in the white.”

They’re on the field for shot put now, and Liam is up next.  He uses a spin putting style, presumably because he needs all the momentum he can get with those skinny arms.  His put is a decent one, but the boy next to Harry goes crazy with excitement, betraying the cool-calm-and-collected impression Harry had gotten from the boy’s tight jeans and leather jacket.

“That’s a personal best,” the boy says, smiling.

“Aces,” Harry smiles back, “I’m Harry by the way.”

Another smile, “Zayn, nice to meet you.”

Harry and Zayn watch the rest of the shot put, then on to the high jump, where Liam makes a great comeback, coming in second in that event.  The London crowd, already in his corner, roars even louder.  Liam is scrawny, not that tall, obviously kind of bewildered at his own success, and everyone loves him for it.

The 1500 metres is fraught with tension.  If Liam Payne can manage to win by seven seconds, he could win it all, depending on who comes in second.  At the very least, he could make the podium, an outstanding feat.

And he almost does it, but he doesn’t.  Liam’s youthful endurance still can’t compete with years and years of training, and Ashton Eaton catches him in the last 200 metres… then Hardee… then Suarez… and suddenly Liam is fourth.

He looks gutted, as does Zayn.  Harry is sure that, wherever in the stadium they are, Liam’s family is also fighting a combination of pride and disappointment.  Harry’s been there.  They’ve all been there.

 

When he runs into Liam at Niall’s party, he almost doesn’t recognize him.  People so often look wildly different in person than they do in pictures or on TV, and Liam’s change quite a bit since London. Harry’s kept good track of Liam’s progress, in a meticulous and creepy way, but nothing quite prepares him to see Liam in the flesh, and to take in just how long four years really is.

In place of the scrawny, lithe teenager that had competed in 2012, there stands (or, rather, there leans against a railing) a long-legged, bulked-up, brick wall of a man.  With a beard and everything.  Harry almost swoons.

After a night of drunken soul-baring and some shameless flirting on Harry’s end, Liam walks with him around the village, until they finally find themselves outside of Liam’s own room.

It’s actually cold out, and Harry reminds himself that it is technically winter in Rio, though they might be there for the Summer games, “You should come see me dive tomorrow,” he says, mostly as an excuse to say anything at all.

Liam looks like he’s mentally considering his schedule before saying, “Yeah, sure.”  After that they say their goodbyes, wishing each other luck, and Liam unlocks his room, looking ready for a long night of sleep.

The strangest thing happens when Harry says his last ‘good night’ - Liam leans in and kisses him.  Like a goodbye kiss, right on the left corner of his mouth, very chaste and quick.  Something instinctual.

Liam doesn’t even seem to realize he’s done it, turning toward his room with a sleepy smile and wave.

Harry is in a daze the whole walk home.

 

+

 

“You look like a right arse, wearing your medal to someone else’s Victory Ceremony.”

Louis has now said what Harry had already suspected: that he looks like a douchebag and everyone knows it.

But Harry’s never really cared about looking like an arse, or what other people think about him.  Besides, Liam was the one who told him to wear his newest medal.  So they could match.

Harry, Louis, Niall, and a large contingent of Great Britain’s track and field athletes are looking on for the Victory Ceremony of the Men’s Decathlon, and when the three victors march out toward the podium, their section of the stadium erupts in cheers.  

(Liam had texted Harry the time of the ceremony.  He had apparently gotten his number from an archaic phone tree disseminated by some of the Great Britain’s senior-most Olympians.)

When Liam steps on to the podium, Harry feels a swell in his chest.  It’s like he’s known this man for years, not days.  In a way he has known him, following his trajectory, hoping they would manage to both land in the same place at the same time.  Now, they really have.

An IOC member from a far-flung country Harry definitely couldn’t find on a map bestows the medal upon Liam, who beams gratefully.  He looks like the weight of the world has just been lifted from his shoulders, and he waves triumphantly up at the crowd.  The medal sways against his torso, gleaming a bright, beautiful silver.

Silver.  Just like Harry’s.

They stand at attention for the United States’ anthem, but Liam dares a look back toward the crowd.  Somehow, even with thousands of people packed into the stands, all vying for the Olympians’ attention, Liam still manages to catch Harry’s eye.

 

That night they skip the party, and Harry helps Liam into his ice bath while Liam blushes furiously.  They watch replays of Harry’s dives that snagged him the silver medal, (just inching out the Mexican diver, still a dozen points away from the near-flawless Chinese diver.)  They watch some replays of Liam’s best events, and chat shit about the upcoming relays, the closing ceremonies, the journey home.

It feels so terribly natural when, as the clock strikes 3:00am, Liam insists that Harry not walk home so late.  The two of them are snug fit in Liam’s twin bed.  Harry is, of course, the little spoon.

“Y’know, since I got bronze four years ago, and silver this year,” Harry says, “It’s only right that I come back in four years to complete my set.”

“‘S only right,” Liam chuckles, blowing a stream of air against Harry’s neck, “So I guess I’ll see you there.”

Harry smiles before he falls asleep, “Yeah, see you then.”

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the olympic anthem.  
> hmu/send prompts/chat with me on tumblr (hotelscalifornia.tumblr.com) or on twitter @isthiswinnie  
> <3


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